


flashback sunday

by somerdaye



Series: freeze frame 'verse [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somerdaye/pseuds/somerdaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows how his romantic comedy ends up. He just isn’t entirely sure how they get there. In other words, Niall is a carefree sweetheart and Harry is an emotionally stunted bloke with a bad memory, but it isn’t a big deal, because they’re in love. (Just don’t expect them to talk about it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	flashback sunday

**Author's Note:**

> this is part of a series/'verse. i'm sure it's possible to read as a standalone, but i would really prefer it if you didn't. plus, less confusion for you!

Harry had wracked every nook and cranny of his brain, sifted through unimportant conversations, dug up old regrets, and realised he was wrong in more arguments than he cared to admit. Yet, try as he might, he could not remember meeting Niall.

It was like Niall was always _there_ , though Facebook photos and intact memories told him that Niall hadn’t been a presence in his life until college. He didn’t know what the first thing Niall said to him was; he couldn’t tell you what his first impression of Niall had been. If ever he was asked -- which wasn’t often, but Perrie was unusually interested in his relationship -- he lied and said it was love at first sight, just to see the way her expression would melt in secondhand happiness.

Truth was, it all kind of blurred together.

He could tell you the first time he’d kissed Niall was easy and had tasted like whiskey, but had it happened before or after their first date? (They’d seen a terrible comedy during which Harry had laughed more at Niall’s amusement than at the idiocy happening on the screen, and they’d had to re-fill the popcorn twice.) He honestly didn’t know, and maybe that ought to worry him.

It didn’t, though, because he remembered the important things. Things like how to make Niall’s tea judging by his mood; that Niall once got a shirt signed by Justin Bieber, which he still kept under his bed at his mum’s place; and the often-convoluted reasoning behind all of his phobias.

Harry didn’t have to be like Zayn and remember every new thing in a relationship to be a good boyfriend.

Before Zayn _was_ a boyfriend, it hadn’t been a big deal. Back when he was in Spain, pining after a girl who was pining right back, Harry never thought much of it. Niall didn’t care about Harry’s lack of proper relationship etiquette, so neither did he.

Around the beginning of December, before all the meddling in Liam’s life, Harry had been lounging on Niall’s unmade bed while Niall tuned his guitar back to normalcy from the last time Louis had fooled around with it. Harry’s bare toes were wriggled under Niall’s warm thigh, his eyelids were heavy, and he was, all around, quite content.

“It’s our anniversary soon,” Niall said.

The casual tone on anyone else would be forced, but Harry knew that Niall legitimately didn’t see it as a huge deal. He tried to think back to the beginning of their relationship, but couldn’t.

“Is it?” he asked, frowning.

Niall grinned at him; he knew full well that Harry was terrible at dates and occasions and timelines. He set his guitar down and flopped onto his stomach half on top of Harry. Harry couldn’t even pretend to be disgruntled by this, so he pulled Niall closer, alleviating the awkward pressure of Niall’s elbow on his spleen.

After a while of quiet in which Harry thought Niall had fallen asleep, Niall said, “A couple of weeks, yeah. It’s a big one, too. D’you know which it is?”

“A year?” Harry guessed, then answered himself. “No, it can’t be. We went to your brother’s wedding for our one-year anniversary -- you were smashed. Longer, then, but there’s no way it’s been two years just yet?”

“Not just yet, no,” said Niall, pressing a kiss to Harry’s ribcage.

“Well if you won’t tell me,” Harry said petulantly, “I’ll ask Liam. I bet he knows.”

Granted, it was pretty strange that Liam knew more about the details of Harry’s relationship than Harry himself did, considering he hadn’t even known Niall until well after Harry had started hooking up with him, but Harry wasn’t complaining. Without Liam’s help he would’ve forgotten to get anything for Niall’s birthday, or tell his mum about his relationship, or anything remotely grown-up like that.

Niall kissed him again, mouth landing dangerously close to one of Harry’s nipples -- probably on purpose, but there was no way to prove it. “Eighteen months.”

“Oh.” Harry did some quick math in his head, petting Niall’s hair absently. “So in the very middle of my guesses.”

“A year and a half, yeah,” Niall said into his collarbone.

He was making his way up Harry’s torso far too slowly for Harry’s liking. Harry tugged him up for a proper kiss, humming happily into Niall’s mouth and refusing to pull away through the giggles. This bit he was good at -- the snogging, the knowing every square inch of Niall’s body. Yeah, okay, so he had no idea _when_ he’d first had sex with Niall, but he could pinpoint every one of Niall’s sensitive spots. Being a boyfriend was like a course in school that Harry was only passing because he aced all the tests.

For the most part, Harry managed to avoid thinking too hard about the qualities he lacked, because Niall was happy with him and that was all that mattered. He didn’t even dwell on it unnecessarily -- until his friends were paired off in their neat little boxes and doing so much better than he ever had.

It was like -- he thought that he probably could've dealt with Zayn's ridiculous attention to detail when it came to Perrie easily enough if it hadn't been for Louis.

Harry didn't remember exactly how he met Louis, either (he thought it might have been in a toilet at a frosh party), but what he _did_ know was that Louis and relationships did not mix.

When Louis was with Eleanor, Harry was able to feel superior in his boyfriend abilities for the first time. At least he always called Niall back; and they'd certainly never fought for longer than the couple of minutes it took for one of them to feel bad and snuggle up to the other. He never rubbed it in Louis’ face, but every time his flatmate had come home looking sullen and annoyed, Harry thought, _I could be so much worse at this_.

Liam, on the other hand, was a model boyfriend, the kind that made even Zayn roll his eyes. Sweet and considerate and everything Louis wasn’t. So Harry thought, like, he knew exactly how _that_ relationship was going to pan out.

Everything looked normal for a few weeks, at least. His phone went off every few days with passive-aggressive complaints about Louis, and Louis himself spent nearly every morning telling Harry over breakfast about something annoying Liam had done, and Harry was able to sit on his I’ve-been-in-a-relationship-longer-than-either-of-you-ever-have-so-I-know-more-about-being-in-one throne. Until -- 

“Why are you all dressed up?” he asked Louis, blinking. “I didn’t even know you owned a blazer.”

“I don’t,” said Louis, “this is yours.”

“Right, of course it is.” Harry jumped onto Louis’ bed and made himself comfortable while Louis fussed with his hair in front of the mirror he’d stolen from Zayn’s house. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“And which question was that?” Louis asked, deliberately being a dick. Harry threw a pillow at him. It missed, and he could see Louis’ reflection laughing at him. He refused to repeat himself and settled on staring daggers at Louis’ shoulder blades until Louis gave up, which usually worked quite well. Louis loved talking far too much to keep something in for long. Sure enough, “Well, Curly, if you _must_ know, I’m taking Liam out.”

“You take Liam out all the time, yet this is the first time you’ve stolen one of my blazers.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Louis said. “I just borrowed it. Without permission.”

Harry squinted at him, though he wasn’t sure Louis could see him in the mirror. “So, not stealing... but stealing?” He was predictably ignored. “Why the nice clothes?”

“I’m taking Liam _proper_ out,” Louis said, apparently deciding his hair looked good enough and turning to face Harry. “Like, to a nice place, for nice food, and hopefully nice conversation. Hence, nice clothes.”

“Do you have the money for a nice food sort of place?” Harry asked.

“Er, no, probably not,” said Louis, “but we’ve been together a month tomorrow, so I feel like I should do something a bit different -- even if it means I have to mooch off his groceries for a week or so to do it.”

Harry was, for a moment, stunned.

There was no way. It had to be Liam’s idea -- except, that didn’t make sense, because there was no way Liam would enable Louis’ inability to save money, he was far too sensible. He supposed Louis was still talking, but he wasn’t listening. Eleanor had _always_ complained about how bad Louis was at remembering things like anniversaries and such -- it was something he and Louis had in common.

“That isn’t possible,” Harry interrupted whatever Louis had been saying. Louis gave him a confused sort of quirk of the lips.

“No, it’s really been --”

“No, no, I mean,” said Harry, feeling like something solid was crashing around his ears, “ _this_ isn’t possible The whole you remembering on your own and doing something special bit. That’s not... it isn’t a thing that you do, Lou.”

Someone else might be offended, but Louis just smiled, tugging on one of Harry’s curls as he did. “What can I say? I’m evolving or some shit. I guess I really like him.”

That was -- no, that couldn’t be right. You couldn’t just _choose_ what to remember based on how much you liked a person, that wasn’t how it worked. Harry sincerely wished it were, because maybe then he’d be able to answer Perrie’s questions without ripping off the plot of the last rom-com he’d watched with the boys. He couldn’t seem to find words, but Louis was done with talking to him, anyway. With a clap on Harry’s shoulder he left, off on his ‘proper’ date for his bloody anniversary.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, re-evaluating some of the things about Louis he’d assumed to be truths, but the buzzing of his mobile against his hip shook him from the trance.

“Hello?” He was proud of how normal his voice sounded. Not that it mattered, of course.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Niall asked immediately.

Harry sighed and flopped onto his back with no intention of moving. He hoped Louis was going to spend the night at Liam’s, so he could lie here and hate things about himself for as long as he pleased. “Nothing’s wrong, what’s up?”

“You’re lying,” said Niall, “and it hurts me in my soul that you think I won’t be able to tell.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched.

“All right, I am lying, but it isn’t anything big. Lou is off on his first proper date with his first proper boyfriend and I’m getting -- oh, what’s that thing that parents have when --”

“Empty nest syndrome?”

“That’s the one,” Harry said, giggling at the mental image of Louis in a birdnest. “Nothing to worry about, darling.”

There was a pause where Niall was clearly deciding whether or not to push the issue, and Harry stretched to retrieve a pillow from the head of Louis’ bed. He was punching it into submission with his free hand when Niall said, “Well, all right. I was calling to say happy birthday.”

Harry glanced at the alarm clock on Louis’ bedside table. “It isn’t my birthday.”

“No, not for another few hours,” said Niall, his voice fond even through the crackling of terrible reception. Harry smothered a grin in Louis’ pillow. “But I wanted to be the first to say it.”

God. Harry could practically feel his heart swell with affection, which only served to making him feel worse. If Louis could just -- just _choose_ to remember things that Harry was so rubbish at because he liked Liam more than he liked Eleanor, why couldn’t Harry remember every single detail of his time with Niall? He must’ve been quiet for too long, because Niall was asking, again, what the matter was.

“Nothing,” Harry insisted. When nothing came down the phone line but skeptical silence, he sighed. “It’s just... okay, you know how terrible Louis is at the boyfriend-y stuff? The, like, remembering anniversaries and actively participating in gift-buying or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Niall said, unconcerned, “you’re like that, too.”

He was, and that was sort of the issue at the moment. Harry ignored that and said, “Well, he says he got over it. Because he likes Liam so much. They’re going out for their one-month tonight, and it was Lou’s idea.”

Niall didn’t say anything, which was a little bit worrying. Harry picked at the quilt beneath him, not wanting to hear whatever it was that was going through Niall’s head. Was he thinking the same thing as Harry? If he was in physical proximity to Niall, he would be able to tell -- he knew Niall’s face too well for him to hide something like that -- but over the phone was more difficult. He couldn’t tell if Niall didn’t care, or if he cared too much for Harry to handle.

Was this how fights started? Real, honest fights? That was new territory for Harry. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought that he and Niall had never once fought the way Louis and Liam seemed to every couple of days. Niall was too carefree -- and Harry too scared of losing him -- for that to happen.

“Babe,” Niall said, breaking Harry out of his thoughts. “Haz, you know I -- okay, like, just because that’s how Louis’ mind works, it doesn’t mean yours is the same. You ought to be glad your brain isn’t wired like his, yeah? That would be scary.”

“I know,” Harry mumbled. “It just sucks. I wish I could remember things just because I like you so much.”

“Well, I like you, too.” Niall sounded far too amused for this conversation. “And, hey, moron, if you want to know things you’ve forgotten, you could just _ask_ me.”

Harry sat up, certain he’d heard wrong. “Ask you?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, I was there, too.”

“And that,” said Harry, “doesn’t, er, make me a terrible person? That I have to ask?”

Laughing, Niall said, “It’s a bit of a blow to the ego, yeah, but it isn’t only me you forget things about, so I don’t _mind_. I’m definitely not just going to keep it all to myself out of revenge -- that would be super dumb of me.”

That -- okay, that changed things. Harry had so many questions, now, that he wasn’t even sure where to start. His Niall knowledge was unmatched by anything else in his inventory, but he couldn’t remember _learning_ it all. It was like he’d known all his life that Niall always picked the pineapple off his pizza and sang Michael Bublé in the shower.

“Oh, I -- okay,” Harry said, his mind searching for a question. “Okay, yeah, that’s good. Thank you.”

“It really isn’t a problem,” said Niall. “So, what do you wanna know?”

So much. It was probably best to begin at the beginning, though, as it were, so Harry asked, “Where was I when we met?”

“Aiden’s end-of-the-year party,” Niall answered immediately. Harry closed his eyes, trying to picture it. There had been red and green streamers, yeah, the wrong colours for the cusp of summer, and too many jello shots. “You were most of the way to drunk, and the only one listening to my terrible jokes.”

Harry remembered that. Or maybe it was just the power of suggestion -- he loved Niall’s jokes, the way Niall would laugh right before he told the punchline. Maybe it was just that he could imagine it so clearly that he remembered. Either way, it didn’t matter. At least he knew, now, where and when he’d first spoken to Niall. That was crucial.

“What was the first thing I said to you?” he asked, straining his memory.

“If I recall correctly,” Niall said, “I’d just told you the very worst pun in my stock, and you spilled your pussy beer all over your shirt when you laughed at it. You said, ‘I keep smiling, it’s all your fault’.”

“That’s a pretty good line,” Harry said, surprised. Niall burst out laughing, and he grinned. He probably made quite the strange picture; sitting alone with his eyes closed on Louis’ bed, smiling off into the distance. Niall just -- had that sort of effect on him. Apparently he always had. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too, tosser,” said Niall.

The subject turned to Harry’s birthday, what the plan was. (There wasn’t a plan outside of ‘let’s go for some drinks with the guys and then shag in someplace we haven’t before’. Which, really, wasn’t a very long list.) Harry racked his phone bill up to possibly astronomical proportions, just listening to Niall talk and wishing he were in arm’s reach. He did manage to turn his phone off before he drifted into a nap, which wasn’t something he always remembered to do.

When he woke up, it was the middle of the night and he felt unreasonably panicked. Okay, so now he knew how his first meeting with Niall had gone, and that was great, but what if he forgot again? He couldn’t control it -- everything blurred together, in the end.

He searched Louis’ room for a pen, thankful that he wasn’t home, and sighed in relief when he found a blue Sharpie -- in Lou’s pants drawer, which he wasn’t going to ask about for the sheer reason that he wasn’t entirely sure why he checked there in the first place -- which he used to write _Aiden’s party, ‘I keep smiling’, bad puns_ on his left arm.

Before he took a shower later, he’d have to write it down somewhere more permanent. That way, whenever he felt the memory slipping, he could trace his fingers over the words until he tricked his mind into remembering again.

He looked around the flat for something to write in, and once he’d steadfastly scratched Liam’s name off the front of a notebook, he copied the words on his arm down in careful letters. While he was at it, he wrote about their first date and the anniversaries he could remember. It wasn’t much, he thought, looking at the few pathetic bullet points, but he needed it more than he wanted to admit. He could add more once his memories got unlocked, or something.

It wasn’t like he kept the notebook a _secret_ , per se, it was just that he never showed it to anyone. It was embarrassing that he needed to put the things he knew about Niall in neat little jot notes along college-ruled paper, when he ought to just be able to remember. When Liam asked, later at the bar, if Harry or Louis had seen the book he was planning on using for his English course, Harry played dumb. Really, Liam deserved it for leaving it lying around Harry’s flat.

Liam looked vaguely suspicious, as he always did when Harry gave him the wide-eyed-innocent look, but he let it go, leaning into the arm Louis had around his shoulders.

Zayn walked in by himself not long after, and Harry couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, “He’s alone! Stop the presses!”

Niall and Louis both started snickering, and Liam’s mouth twitched in the way that meant he wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure if it would be rude. Zayn merely levelled Harry with a withering look, sliding into the booth beside Liam.

“Where’s Perrie?” Liam asked, patting Zayn’s shoulder in sloppy comfort. Louis smirked and opened his mouth, but Zayn didn’t seem to be in the mood for his shit.

“She’s in Germany,” Zayn said. He looked upset enough about it that Harry felt like a dick for teasing him. He took Zayn’s hands in his own, to make up for it. “Doing promo work around Europe or something with the girls. It’s no big -- I mean, she’ll be back in a few weeks. She said to tell you ‘Happy Birthday’, and that she’s sorry she can’t make it.”

Without a word, Niall pulled Harry’s mobile out of his pocket and tapped out a thanks to Perrie, since Harry’s hands were occupied with Zayn’s.

“Are we going to tell our best Hazza stories now?” Louis asked. He sounded far too excited; Harry was almost worried about what sort of blackmail Louis must have had on him at this point in their friendship.

“Let’s not and say we did,” said Harry.

Miraculously, they listened. Niall climbed over Harry to go order a round, and Liam was talking to Zayn about his and Louis’ date in a sort of quietly excited voice. His cheeks were pink, and Louis looked smug. Normally, Harry wouldn’t admit to being the jealous type, but he couldn’t think of another reason why he was getting up to help Niall carry the drinks. They were just so happy, it hurt to watch. Like, Zayn and Perrie were nauseatingly happy, too, but Zayn being a good boyfriend wasn’t new territory for Harry’s mind, whereas Louis...

Well. It was a testament to how well Niall knew him that he didn’t ask any questions, just pulled Harry closer by the belt loop of his jeans and kissed the side of his head. The bartender made a face but said nothing when he handed over their beers.

Niall gave him a brilliant smile, easily taking three bottles with one hand and gesturing for Harry to take the others. He couldn’t have missed the grimace, but he wasn’t glaring like Harry was.

“Ignore him,” he muttered on their way back to the table. “Ignore everything. It’s your birthday, fucking enjoy it.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Harry said.

It wasn’t that easy, though, to push things that bothered him out of his mind. He wished he could -- could just make all the bad things disappear and replace them with Niall -- but he still stayed quiet for the first few rounds of drinks. Niall kept his arm around Harry’s shoulders like he knew why he wasn’t joining in on the conversation about Eleanor’s new boyfriend.

Okay, so it wasn’t the homophobe that was bugging him (well, that was a lie, but that wasn’t the _sole_ thing). He just hated any sort of reminder that some people thought he wasn’t supposed to be with Niall. Looks, whispers... whatever, he was used to those. On days like this, though, where all he could think about was how much he didn’t deserve to be loved like he was, things got under Harry’s skin more easily. It was one thing to think ‘who gives a bloody fuck who I’m dating’, and another entirely to think ‘yeah, I don’t know why he’s with me, either’ and actually _not know_.

The topic had somehow moved to Liam offering to get Zayn a dog to keep him company -- Louis interjecting with a platypus joke that made Zayn drop his head to the table to hide his laughter -- but it was all feeling a bit pressing, like Harry couldn’t breathe properly.

“I’m going to the toilet,” he said quietly to Niall.

Niall looked at him in that careful, searching sort of way that Harry hated. How was he supposed to wallow if Niall didn’t let him?

“Alright,” Niall said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“When did we turn into teenage girls?” Harry asked, laughing despite himself. “And how come I didn’t get a magnificent pair of breasts to go along with the weeing-in-groups tendency?”

Predictably, Louis turned to look at him, distracted. “What’s this about breasts?”

“Hazza’s mourning his lack of them,” Niall explained. “He’s going to go cry in the toilets about it.”

“It’s a damned shame,” Harry said with a dramatic sigh. He stood up, glad for the teasing. His mood was always less conspicuous when the people around him thought he was just sulking about being made fun of. Which, okay, happened more often than Harry liked to admit. He promised to return and, avoiding looking anywhere near the bar and its homophobic tender, made his way to the men’s room.

It was mercifully empty. Not that other people would’ve stopped Harry from crawling up onto the counter and taking deep breaths, but at least he got to avoid the odd looks he might’ve gotten otherwise. He started counting to a hundred in French, a calming technique Caroline taught him, but barely reached soixante-seize before the door opened. He didn’t open his eyes -- if it was a stranger, they would take one look at him, assume he was mentally unstable, and leave again -- but the hands on his knees told him he had actual company.

“Sorry,” he said, winding his fingers with Niall’s. “I tried to ignore it, I swear.”

“It’s okay, babe,” said Niall’s voice. He stood there, between Harry’s legs, for a little while -- over a hundred French numbers, in any case -- without saying anything. Normally it would be a great thing, but right now it only succeeded in making Harry feel worse about himself.

Harry opened his eyes and regretted it almost immediately. Niall’s face was such an open book, and Harry wasn’t currently in the right state of mind to read it.

“I don’t want to go back out just yet,” he said.

“That’s okay, too.” Niall smiled at him, small and so _fond_ that Harry was glad when he leaned in to rest their foreheads together so he didn’t have to see it anymore. “Do you want me to stay?”

 _No_ , Harry thought. He nodded, though, and pushed forward the slightest bit to kiss Niall. He wasn’t entirely sure which was the real answer, because he was feeling them both -- the need to be alone and the constant craving he had for Niall’s attentions. If he were feeling up to par, this would be the point where he’d whisper, “You know, we haven’t shagged in here, yet”, and it was a bit too public for actual sex but Niall would push him against the door so nobody could get in, and since it was Harry’s birthday he would sink to his knees --

But he just wasn’t in the mood, and Niall seemed to get that. He pressed his mouth to the curls at Harry’s temple and just breathed with him. Harry had lost count of French time, but they must’ve been there awhile.

When they came out, hands tangled together, Liam gave them a scandalised look and Louis burst out laughing. Even worse was Zayn’s little smile -- he’d started thinking Niall and Harry were more ‘cute’ than ‘disgusting’ ever since Perrie had come into their group. Of course, their reactions all got worse when Niall told them he was bringing Harry home, and that the last person to leave had to pick up the tab.

They’d picked a place fairly close to Niall’s, so that neither of them would have to figure out public transit while drunk. Not that they’d stayed long enough to get anywhere close, but the night was intended to be a lot more fun than it had turned out to be. It was snowing, and the tip of Niall’s nose was red by the time they’d walked the three blocks home. All Harry wanted to do was curl up under Niall’s duvet and pretend like nothing outside of the loft existed.

Niall was great about it, too, staying quiet and helping Harry take his boots off. He went upstairs without checking if Harry was following him. The fact that Niall just _knew_ he would made a lump rise in Harry’s throat, and of course he followed.

There was a new blanket on the bed, which was made-up for once. Harry remembered complaining about how cold the loft got earlier in the week, and -- wow, see, he never would’ve taken a comment like that to heart like Niall had. He shed his layers of clothing with ease and snuggled up underneath the covers. Niall was still working on unbuttoning his jacket, but he joined Harry soon enough.

His body was the most comfortable warmth along Harry’s back, familiar enough to make at least a little of the bad mood dissipate. He put an arm around Harry, holding tight like he was just trying to help Harry keep it together. 

Harry turned his head to press a kiss to Niall’s still-red nose.

“Sorry I’m being dumb,” he said, his voice sounding foreign in the dead quiet.

“Fuck off,” said Niall, “and go to sleep.”

That sounded like a great idea. Harry leaned back into the safety of Niall’s arms, bringing a hand up to hold onto the one on his chest. He meant to tell Niall that he was kind of ridiculously in love with him, but he fell asleep before he was certain he’d said it aloud.

When he woke up Niall was gone, a note scribbled on a receipt from Nandos that said he had to go to class and he hoped Harry was feeling better. Harry had class, too, but fuck it.

He resolved to stay in bed for the whole day, a resolve that crumbled the moment his stomach started to growl. Wrapping the new, fluffy blanket around his shoulders, he went downstairs in search of something easy and bad for him. He didn’t want to cook anything, so he grabbed a box of crackers and sat on the floor in his blanket pile, leaning against the fridge to pig out.

Once the box was empty, Harry realised that he probably ought to get up and do something productive. On the other hand, he could claim a hangover to all his responsibilities, and just spend the day watching crappy reality television. He ended up doing neither -- he took a nap on the kitchen floor, trying to remember the first time he stepped foot in Niall’s house.

That was how Niall found him some time later, curled up in front of the fridge mostly naked.

“This is strange even for you,” he said once he’d managed to shake Harry awake. “Are you getting, like, proper depressed? Should I be worried?”

“Not depressed,” Harry promised him, pulling him down into a sleepy cuddle.

Niall complained a bit about the floor being pretty gross, but the way he snuggled into Harry’s collarbone said he didn’t actually care. For a while they just laid there, Niall telling Harry’s neck all about his day and Harry huffing laughs into his hair at the appropriate intervals. It was -- it was really nice. Harry could feel the _nice_ ness of it throughout his whole body, like Niall was seeping into his very veins and turning Harry into a puppet for his own benefit. It scared him, how big it all felt, and he remembered what he’d woken up wanting to say.

“I love you,” he said, cutting into Niall’s laundry list of what he’d eaten for lunch. “Like, really love you.”

“Oddly enough,” said Niall, “I can tell.”

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “No, I mean... I’m shit sometimes, I know. I’m bad at things that are supposed to come easy if you like someone enough, but, like, just because I can never remember which day in September your birthday is doesn’t mean --”

“I know,” Niall said, pulling back from Harry’s neck to give him a surprisingly serious look. “I know how much you love me, Haz, you don’t have to prove it.”

“I feel like I do,” Harry said, avoiding Niall’s gaze.

Niall didn’t respond to that, he just pressed his lips to Harry’s eyebrow and stayed there, nuzzling into his curls. Harry closed his eyes and pretended like such small shows of fondness didn’t affect him. He wondered how long he would be able to keep up an act like that -- not long at all, probably, his heart was so full that he would give up in record time.

For a few minutes Harry sulked, and Niall hummed Justin Bieber into his hair. He wondered what sort of picture they made, tangled under a blanket on the tiled floor like this. Long stretches of silence weren’t regular for them, though, so he wasn’t surprised when Niall started talking again.

“Do you remember,” he started, his lips brushing Harry’s forehead with every word, “the first time you told me you loved me?”

“I don’t,” Harry admitted.

Niall smiled -- Harry could feel the curve of it. “Once upon a time,” he said in an announcer impersonation. Harry giggled, and Niall sounded proud of himself when he continued. “There was this posh pretty boy who used up all my hot water. One day, I had a lecture to get to and I was impatient, so I got in the shower with him. He asked what took me so long, suds in his hair and silly-looking, and --”

“You rinsed my hair for me,” Harry said, remembering the morning with a jolt. “And I said I loved you.”

With a delighted little laugh, Niall landed a quick kiss on Harry’s lips.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling too wide to keep kissing. Harry felt a whole lot better -- he could do this, he could remember his relationship from the ground up. The memories were still _there_ , just hidden under the months and months of being together.

“Not a very romantic way of saying it,” said Harry.

“No,” Niall agreed. “But very you.”

Harry pressed close, sliding his hands up to cup Niall’s face for another kiss. “And that’s a good thing?”

“The best thing,” Niall said with a laugh, rolling Harry onto his back. He kissed up Harry’s jaw, stopping just before his mouth and ignoring Harry’s whine. “Because, like, you’re the best person.”

He didn’t totally agree with that, but he wasn’t about to object to anything that might lead to sex, so he accepted the compliment for what it was. It was far more awkward than Harry generally liked his blowjobs, because tiled floor _hurt_ , but it was something familiar enough to make all his listless thoughts go away.

For a few days he managed to push it out of his mind entirely. Why bother worrying about gaps in your memory when you had new memories to make? He went to his classes and hung out with his single friends to feel just that little bit superior. More than that, though, he spent time with Niall. Not for any special _reason_ , he just liked being around him. They studied together and ordered foreign comedies on Netflix that they didn’t understand, and it was all pretty normal. For a while, Harry left the ‘memory notebook’ where he’d concealed it -- in the cupboard where he and Louis kept the cleaning supplies. Sure enough, Louis never found it.

Louis actually stopped by Niall’s place later in the week, which gave both Harry and Niall pause. Louis didn’t do that, just visit randomly. At least, not when it was just the two of them, to avoid being scarred for life or whatever -- was something wrong?

According to Louis, no, but Harry thought Zayn having a mental breakdown on the sofa at Harry and Louis’ flat constituted as a cause for concern rather than annoyance. Niall gave Louis a bemused little smile when he started to complain about how Zayn just _wouldn’t shut up_ about Perrie, and he was sick of it.

“How long did you listen for?” Harry asked curiously, pulling on his jacket.

Louis checked the watch on Niall’s wrist and said, “Roughly ten minutes, but it was a long ten minutes.”

“Why didn’t you call Liam to come and get him?” asked Niall. “He’s very used to being dragged out of class to take care of one of us.”

“And Liam would do a much better job at consoling him than we would,” Harry pointed out.

“Well,” Louis said, hesitating for long enough that Harry was ready to leave before he started speaking again. “I didn’t want Li to think I’m an insensitive cow that can’t deal with lovesick whining, but that’s exactly what I am.”

Rolling his eyes, Niall stepped into his boots and snagged one of his coats from the floor by the front door. He wasn’t stellar at putting things away, Harry thought fondly. Once he was presentable for the icy weather, he said, “Let’s go knock some happiness into our boy.”

Louis’ car was, as always, a complete tip. Harry balked at the idea of putting a single foot on the wrapper-covered floor, but Niall didn’t even seem to notice, and he wasn’t about to be the idiot standing on the side of the road while his friends drove away (again). Wincing at all the diseases he must be picking up from the back seat -- and, great, now he was thinking about how Louis had probably had Liam back here at some point, which _wasn’t helping_ \-- Harry grit his teeth for the six-minute drive.

“How do you drive like that?” Harry asked, scrambling to get out of the car before Louis even put it in park. “How can you concentrate on not hitting pedestrians when the interior of your car smells like a landfill?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Louis scoffed.

It really was. Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Niall pulled him by the waist to the building. Right, Zayn was the important thing here, not Louis’ grossness.

If Niall weren’t there, Harry would’ve spent the whole lift ride bickering with Louis, and been in too irritated a mood to help Zayn in any capacity by the time they got to the fifth floor. Luckily Niall was a calming influence -- on both of them -- and he kept the mood up just by chattering on about sports and pretending there was no tension of any kind in the enclosed space.

Niall was so good at the diffusing-situations-before-they-blew-up thing. Where Harry was likely to cheer a fight on and take notes for his term paper, Niall would step in and smile until everyone else was smiling with him. Harry thought it was one of the best things about him.

“So what’re we dealing with, here?” Harry asked as they reached their floor, interrupting Louis’ description of the latest Man U match.

“With what?”

“With what, he asks. With Zayn, you bleeding moron.”

Louis gave him the evil eye. That generally meant that, as soon as Niall was out of earshot, he would start in on Harry about everything that made _him_ a terrible flatmate. Which was cool -- Harry could take it as well as he could dish it. Maybe better, because he wasn’t really that great at insulting people in the first place.

“I know what you meant,” he said. “I was testing you. And what you’re dealing with is an incredibly upset, almost full-grown man curled around my body pillow and wearing Perrie’s socks.”

“How do you know they’re Perrie’s?” Niall asked, sounding amused.

“They’re striped knee-highs, so I just assumed. If they’re Zayn’s, good for him, we ought to get him to wear them to the pub next time.”

Chuckling, Harry tried turning the doorknob of his own flat. Of course, it was locked. He didn’t bother asking if Louis had his key, because the chance of that happening was roughly the same as Liam selling his camera to buy drugs. He groaned.

“Guys, d’you think he’d open it for us if --”

“Here,” Niall said. It took Harry a moment to realise that he was holding Harry’s key out.

He didn’t ask why Niall had it, or why he’d foreseen them getting locked out when he was the one who _didn’t_ technically live here, because that would start up his worrying again, and he was done with that nonsense.

Well, he hoped he was, anyway.

“Thanks, babe,” was all he said, smiling. He could practically hear Louis rolling his eyes. The key needed to be jiggled a bit, but the door swung open easily enough. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see in his living room -- Zayn crying on the floor, maybe, looking through pictures of Perrie on his phone -- but what greeted him from his sofa was a different scene altogether. Zayn was sitting up and not clutching any kind of pillow whatsoever, though he did have a small tub of Häagen-Dazs on his lap and an arm around his shoulders.

“What’re you doing here?” Louis asked, his voice going embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Zayn texted me,” Liam said apologetically. “He said you abandoned him and could I please bring him some ice cream, because he was upset enough to require it.”

There was a brief moment of awkward silence, where Louis refused to meet anybody’s eyes and Zayn glared, a spoon half hanging out of his mouth. Harry expected Niall to be the one to talk first, but he seemed content to lean against the nearest wall and smile at Liam.

Louis had a low tolerance for silences like this. Within a minute, he blurted, “You know what’ll cheer you up, Zaynie? If I hit you very hard in the face with a snowball. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

The spoon fell out of Zayn’s mouth with the force of his scowl, and Harry choked back a laugh.

It looked like there was going to be _another_ tiff between Louis and Zayn over something stupid, which was an occurrence that Harry was incredibly used to, but Liam surprised him by standing up and nodding in a determined fashion.

“That does sound fun,” said Liam. “A snowball fight sounds like a great idea, Lou. C’mon, Zayn, get up and dressed properly. I don’t think I’ve had a snowball fight in, like...” He trailed off, clearly counting years in his head, before giving up. “Ages. Come on.”

A couple of months ago Louis’ inability to be empathetic would have led to a blow-up between them, and probably Harry would have had to go between Louis and Zayn for a couple of weeks before Zayn apologised (because Louis never, ever would). It was the routine. Then again, a couple of months ago, they hadn’t had Liam to step in between them and prevent the typical explosion.

The fact of it was that Zayn cared too much about Liam to say no, and Louis cared so much about Liam that he came to get Harry and Niall to deal with what he couldn’t instead of just abandoning Zayn altogether.

Harry had definitely made the right decision, waiting to get Liam in the same room as Louis. He didn’t always get along with Liam, no, but the guy was almost as good at peace-making as Niall. Hopefully, he’d be a good enough influence on Louis to make him more serious.

Right now, Harry loved where his life was at. He loved that he could laugh with his friends about a man wearing his girlfriend’s socks, all the while knowing that every one of them was thinking about how cute that actually was. He even loved that he was living with his best mate, even if said best mate wasn’t great about keeping up with the rent or cleaning anything, ever, but... that was _now_. Harry was going to get tired of acting like Louis’ second mum, and Louis was going to get tired of how little faith Harry had in him for things like work ethics and being nice to strangers and trying to change.

Louis needed Liam, and maybe... maybe he and Harry could stop needing each other so much, sometime soon.

Not _too_ soon, though. Louis caught Harry’s eye and wrinkled his nose, childishly ignoring the faces that Zayn, pulling on his coat, was making at him.

“Wait,” Harry said, once he realised everyone was dressed and waiting to leave the flat. “Wait, we -- we’re going outside? In the cold stuff? And throwing the cold stuff at each other? That’s what we’re currently doing?”

“Yeah,” said Niall. Louis looked at Harry like he was an idiot.

“I’m gonna...” They were all staring at Harry. It was freaking him out. “I’m, yeah, no, I’m staying inside. I’ll make a five-course meal if you want me to, just let me stay indoors. In the warmth.”

Liam said, “Harry”, in that bordering-on-stern voice he used sometimes that made him sound like a dad. _Now, Harry, don’t ruin this for everyone. Come have fun, you won’t regret rolling around in mushy, wet, too-cold snow, I promise._

“I refuse vehemently,” Harry said, but Niall and Louis had already grabbed his arms.

“Much as I appreciate your cooking, love,” said Niall, “I think I’d much rather throw you into the nearest snowbank.”

There were hints of a smile on Zayn’s face, but Harry was too concerned about his own well-being to care that they’d achieved their goal. He struggled against the grip of his two favourite people; he knew he couldn’t expect any help from Zayn’s end, so this was every man for himself. What he hadn’t expected was Liam -- who was far too enthusiastic about this whole thing -- actively participating in getting Harry out the door.

So, when Liam picked him up in a fireman’s hold like he was a ragdoll, Harry just went with it. There wasn’t much he could do without seriously hurting himself and making Liam frown in concern.

“I just want you all to know that I’m not okay with this.”

“Fair enough,” Louis said jovially.

“You guys are the best,” said Zayn as they got into the lift. One of their neighbours was just arriving at their floor, and barely gave a second glance at Liam carrying Harry. “Except you, Louis.”

“Cheers, mate.”

“Oi,” Harry yelled at their neighbour’s retreating back, “I could be getting kidnapped, here, and you’re off to watch Eastenders without batting an eye!”

“How do you know she’s going to watch Eastenders?” Liam asked in genuine interest.

“Thin walls.” Harry watched, despaired, as the lift doors slid closed. “You gonna put me down?”

Liam shook his head. “Probably not.”

All the way to the ground floor and out onto the street, Harry sulked. He turned the pout up to eleven once they hit the sidewalk, in hopes that some passersby would take pity on him and adopt him out of this cruel environment. No takers, though, and Harry was engulfed in snow before he could start to whine.

He shook the excess mush from his hair, disgusted, and rolled it up with his mittened hands to immediately throw in Liam’s face. The problem, Harry thought, with being friends with someone who distinctly resembled a puppy, was that you felt bad every time you made him look upset. Harry pushed down the guilt with more difficulty than he was comfortable with -- Liam had literally carried him out of his home against his will, Harry had no business being apologetic -- and laughed at the vaguely confused expression Liam was sporting.

Louis yelled a war cry and pounced on Harry in some kind of chivalrous move to protect Liam. The two of them rolled around in the snowbank, trying to shove snow into each other’s clothes.

“Oh, no, oh, I’m sorry I suggested this -- somebody’s going to get hurt --”

“Shut up, Liam,” Niall’s voice came, loudly. Immediately afterwards, Harry heard Liam squawk, like he’d been attacked with a snowball. There was no way that was coincidental. “Just have fun with it, they’ll be fine.”

With Louis’ elbow digging into his spleen, Harry had to agree with Liam on this one. Except that when he opened his mouth to say so, Louis shoved gross snow into it. Harry choked, and Louis took the opportunity to laugh victoriously and sit on Harry’s chest.

“The undefeated champion!” Louis bellowed, attempting to show off his biceps through his multiple layers of clothing.

Harry looked at Niall, who nodded and, in one swift movement, hit Louis in the neck with another snowball. His aim wasn’t usually that good; Harry would have bet he’d been aiming for Louis’ face. Louis spluttered and Harry could hear Liam apologising to people passing by for their rowdiness and then Zayn just -- Zayn just started to _laugh_ , ridiculous and loud and bordering on hysterical. Despite the fact that most of him was cold and wet, Harry couldn’t help but grin at Niall.

Harry was probably prone to hyperbole, moreso than most of his friends (less than Liam, though, surely), but he felt like it wasn’t an exaggeration at all to think that he would have let himself be dropped in the Atlantic if it made Zayn happier.

“Hey,” Louis laughed, getting off Harry gracelessly. “I knew I could cheer you up!”

“You’re a twat,” said Harry.

Apparently, Zayn agreed. With a sweet smile that probably would have girls all over the world swooning, he came over to hug Louis... and proceeded to dump snow down the back of Louis’ jacket.

Harry scrambled to his feet before he got involved in another snow-war. He rushed to Niall’s side and clung like a child to the lapels of his jacket, trying to absorb some of Niall’s body heat. Louis and Zayn were already wrestling, making nuisances of themselves. It was only a matter of time before Liam got exasperated and went in to break it up.

“Want to get out of here?” Niall asked in a low voice.

“God, please,” said Harry, letting himself be dragged away to the side of the building. He doubted the other boys had even noticed; they were all too focused on each other.

The small parking lot was covered in snow and empty, because nobody in Harry’s building cared enough about parking their car to actually shovel it. They could hear Louis yelling at Zayn from the sidewalk, and Zayn’s unintelligible animal noises, and Liam’s _now, now, that’s enough, boys_ , but they were, technically, alone. Harry pressed a kiss to the side of Niall’s mouth, hoping Niall would take the hint.

“My flat’s empty right now,” Harry said slyly. Niall just smiled at him.

“It is,” he said, “but I want -- can we just, like, stay here for a bit? I haven’t made a snow angel in... too long.”

Grumbling about it would be useless at this point, so Harry backed up a couple of paces and, making sure there wasn’t anything that resembled cement behind him, flopped onto his back. When Niall laughed in surprise, Harry said, “Come on in, honey, the water’s great.”

“You’re a fucking dork,” said Niall.

“You’re the one who wanted to make snow angels,” Harry reminded him. “So get down here and flap your arms like a chicken.”

“I’ll have you know I’m more of an eagle,” Niall said as he lowered himself to the ground -- far more carefully than Harry had -- and sprawled out. He was so close to Harry that their ‘wings’ were going to overlap, not that Harry minded.

Harry blew out an amused breath, watching it swirl around his nose before dissipating into the winter air. He gazed up at the sky while Niall started to move his limbs; there were small patches of pale blue peeking out from between the clouds. It was easier to pretend like the current weather was fascinating than it was to recognise the loaded silence and _do_ something about it.

The thing was, Harry had never been good with doing stuff that he was supposed to. Pointless stuff, sure, he could make kickass tacos and would do anything Louis dared him to, but... this was his romantic comedy, wasn’t it? They’d met in a cute sort of way, even though Harry couldn’t remember it for himself, and they’d fallen in love, and acted superior to their friends, and _then_ helped said friends fall in love. It was the perfect formula. Harry was sure that his and Niall's relationship would have been a big box-office hit.

Except that the movies didn't tell you what to do next.

What happened now? Now, Harry was supposed to say _I love you_ , and maybe add something cheesy -- or let the simplicity speak for him, the scene could go either way -- and Niall was supposed to laugh and roll atop him and ruin their snow angels and kiss him nice and long and proper. Soundtrack plays, fade to black, roll credits.

"You can't fade to black in real life," was what Harry said instead.

Niall hummed, the way he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what Harry was on about, and accidentally-on-purpose brushed his hand over Harry’s.

They laid there, not quite holding hands, until the hurricane that was Louis Tomlinson invaded their airspace and begged for their help in the Fight Against Zayn (“Capitalised,” he’d insisted, as if that made their bickering more important).

“Duty calls,” said Niall. He helped Harry to his feet and kissed him, briefly enough that even Louis couldn’t complain.

 _You’re too good for me_ , was what Harry didn’t say. He didn’t say it on the way back to Niall’s house, and he didn’t say it while they ate chicken wings and watched Strictly Come Dancing, and he didn’t say it at all, ever.

In fact, he managed to pretend he'd never had such thoughts up to the moment he woke up feeling like death. Apparently, rolling around in below zero weather and letting yourself air-dry was a great recipe for contracting the worst sort of head cold. Then, Harry’s insecurity came rushing back with the force of an anvil, because Niall was way too sweet about it all.

He’d make Harry several cups of tea an hour and keep stock on his tissue inventory and was, in general, the the best sort of caregiver/boyfriend that a person could ask for. And Harry had no way to repay him.

That wasn’t totally true, though. Valentine’s Day was coming up soon enough, and all Harry had to do was Do Something Special to make it up to Niall. It wasn’t even that Niall kept score -- if anything, the fact that he _didn’t care at all_ made Harry feel worse.

So, there Harry was on the day in question, mucking around with Niall’s guitar on the floor in order to allow Niall the ability to spread his biology notes all over the bed. He didn’t know any chords, let alone full songs, but Niall never complained when Harry picked the instrument up. In fact, he seemed to enjoy Harry’s one-string-at-a-time plucking.

Adoring even the bad bits of each other, reminiscing like it was for fun rather than for Harry’s benefit -- this was their bargain-bin version of romance.

Oh, right, romance.

“Hey, Nialler,” Harry said, dropping the guitar and ignoring Niall’s squawk of protest. “What time is it?”

“Twelve fifty-three,” Niall said. He was glaring a little. “And, oi, don’t manhandle my things.”

“You don’t generally complain about me manhandling your things.” Harry climbed onto the bed and into Niall’s lap, just in case the double entendre wasn’t clear enough. There was paper crinkling under his left knee -- he hoped it wasn’t anything important. “Happy Valentine’s, then.”

He kissed Niall deeply, ignoring the laugh that got huffed into his mouth. Niall settled his hands on Harry’s hips and kissed him back, but -- for some reason, it felt like he was placating Harry.

“What’s the deal?” Harry asked, pulling away with a frown.

Niall smiled sheepishly and said, “Haz, babe, it hasn’t been Valentine’s Day for fifty-six minutes.”

“What? No, it’s the fifteenth now,” said Harry.

He didn’t understand why Niall was looking at him all sympathetic and amused, but it was making him irritated. Here he was, trying to do something for Valentine’s Day (Night? Valentine’s Night? Was that a thing?), and his boyfriend was laughing at him. Some of his annoyance must’ve shown, because Niall kissed the side of his neck in apology.

“Valentine’s Day is on the fourteenth, sweetheart,” Niall said, clearly keeping laughter at bay. Harry felt himself flush and was glad for Niall’s face being hidden in his neck.

“Is it?” Disheartened and a little embarrassed, Harry made to get off Niall, but Niall held tight.

“Technically, yes,” he said, kissing Harry’s bare shoulder. “But who made that rule, anyway? A bunch of religious people who died a long time ago.”

“Mm?” Harry hummed, distracted by Niall’s mouth.

“D’you want to have our own Valentine’s Day? I think there’s brownie mix in the cupboards.”

“It’s almost one in the morning,” Harry laughed. Niall grinned up at him with his eyes all squinty.

“Since when do brownies have a time limit?”

A very good question, Harry thought. It was still with great reluctance that he got off Niall’s lap. He made a face at the crumpled papers he left in his wake, but Niall didn’t seem to mind. They shoved at each other on their way to the stairs for no other reason than they wanted to keep touching.

Niall was right in the fact that there was, indeed, a box of brownie mix in the kitchen cupboard. However, there was nothing but a cookie sheet to put the aforementioned mix _in_. Of course, that wasn’t an issue in Niall’s eyes.

“We know how to make cookies,” he said, watching Harry stir the ingredients from a safe distance. “Let’s just make cookies. With the mix.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Cookie-shaped brownies?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Apparently unable to help himself, Niall came over to dip his fingers in the chocolatey mix. He sucked on them through a grin, ignoring Harry’s glare. Harry bumped Niall with his hip to get him away from the counter and, by extension, the bowl.

“Oi, it’ll taste better cooked,” said Harry. “I promise.”

Despite assurances that he did, indeed, know that, Niall tried eating the mix twice more. Harry realised that making cookie shapes out of such watery mix would be difficult, so he added flour to the bowl, ignoring Niall’s wrinkled nose. He refused to let Niall help him make up the cookie sheet -- half of the potential cookies would go missing, he was certain.

Niall sang bad pop music and dumped dishes in the sink for later perusal and kissed the back of Harry’s neck and danced like Michael Jackson and -- Harry just really bloody loved him.

“Into the oven it goes,” Harry said, not bothering to put oven mitts on.

“Finally,” Niall groaned. He attached himself to Harry’s back, walking in step with him to the oven. He was the most ridiculous person (excluding Louis) that Harry had ever met. Ridiculousness was good. Sometimes Harry thought the world ought to be a bit more ridiculous.

He got the brownie-cookie hybrids into the oven without any burns, but Niall was still clinging to him like an octopus. Harry backed them up a couple of steps so they were a good distance away from the baking goods. Then, realisation hit him, sliding into his stomach like something cold and slimy that Gemma had dared him to eat.

“I didn’t get you a present,” he said, looking down at where Niall’s hands were joined on his stomach. “I meant to, but then I forgot.”

Niall scoffed and pulled away from him, letting the chilly night air from the open window attack Harry’s back again. While Harry suppressed a full-body shiver, Niall opened the drawer he used for all his junk -- old playing cards, tacks, mismatched screws -- and rummaged around for a minute. Harry didn’t ask what he was doing, because he wouldn’t have gotten an answer anyway.

“Aha,” said Niall, pulling what looked like a yellow ribbon out of the drawer. He sidled up to Harry again, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder, and tied the length of ribbon around Harry’s wrist.

“You’re going to say something cheesy, aren’t you?” Harry asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Ignoring him, Niall pressed a kiss to his ear and said, “You’re my present,” in a voice that was low and vaguely dirty and genuine.

“We’re not having sex in the kitchen again,” said Harry. He hoped it sounded like what he meant -- he often wondered if Niall could hear the ‘I love you’s in everything Harry said to him. It seemed a waste, if he didn’t, but Harry wasn’t comfortable saying it as much as he thought it. “I still hurt.”

“We don’t have time, anyway,” Niall said dismissively. “There’s like seven minutes on those brownie things.”

“You don’t think I could get you off in seven minutes?”

Niall nuzzled into Harry’s neck, his hair tickling the underside of Harry’s jaw. “Nah, I’m sure you could, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Well,” Harry said, snickering, “the orgasm bit is always pretty fun.”

“Can we talk about something other than orgasms?” Niall asked through huffs of delighted laughter.

The thing was, if you’d have told Harry pre-Niall (nineteen months... twenty, maybe?) that he was going to have the kind of steady relationship where they baked crossbred pastries and discussed the not-having-of-orgasms casually and had things like anniversaries and secondary toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms and -- well. It hadn’t been high on Harry’s to-do list, really. Not this young, in any case; he had plenty of time for all the scariness of ‘well we’re practically married anyway’ in the remaining decades of his life.

He was newly nineteen years old, and he was committed, and that was... it was great, really, it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was also the most terrifying experience of his life. What if Niall got fed up with stuff like this recount of their whole relationship? No, he didn’t want to think about that. Not today, not ever.

If he pretended like he didn’t know Niall could leave him any day he pleased, he could sort of prevent it from happening. At least, if Harry kept the act up for long enough, he might even get to keep him.

“Are you okay?” Niall asked, bringing a hand up to turn Harry’s face towards him. “You’re all quiet.”

“I’m quiet sometimes,” Harry protested. Niall raised an eyebrow, and he sighed, leaning his forehead against Niall’s. “Nothing’s wrong that I haven’t already told you.”

“Still upset that Liam and Louis think they’re a better couple than us?”

“No,” said Harry, “they’re nowhere near our level yet. It isn’t... it’s not that, really, it’s more that I know every detail of _their_ first proper date, and I can’t remember ours. I don’t want my memory space taken up by their junk, you know? I have my own to worry about.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Haz,” Niall said, looking at him carefully.

Of course, Niall had picked out the key word in Harry’s babbling that he’d been trying to gloss over. The timer on the oven dinged, and Harry reluctantly extricated himself from Niall’s arms. Niall swung his arms in an awkward fashion, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them when they weren’t around Harry. Harry hid a smile at the thought, searching for the oven mitts that Zayn must’ve put away the last time he was here.

“I know,” Harry said, and he _did_. “I can’t help it, sorry.”

He set the brownie-cookies out to cool, and got back into a concerned Niall’s personal space as soon as he’d turned the oven off. Harry brought his hands up to the sides of Niall’s face; a sweet move that looked silly with the big, patterned gloves.

“I love you,” said Niall. He sounded almost frustrated. “I know you love me. That’s -- it’s _enough_ , isn’t it, to just.... be in love?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been --” Harry cut himself off, but they both knew how the sentence ended. There was a sticky moment, where Harry pretended like he hadn’t just almost admitted something so big and Niall pretended like he didn’t want to hear the admission. Then, Harry said, in a much slower voice, “I just don’t know, and I’m, like, scared. That it might not be.”

“Well, it’s good enough for me,” Niall said, pulling Harry’s mitted hands from his face to hold them in his own.

Harry felt himself smiling before he was certain the words had sunk in. If it was good enough for Niall, they could keep doing this blind-leading-the-blind thing that they’d been doing for months -- bracing themselves to hit some kind of painful obstacle all the while.

He leaned in to kiss Niall, quickly, to end the worrying discussion.

“How about we eat the mutations,” said Harry, “and you can tell me all about our first proper date, yeah? I want to replace Louis’ dumb stories.”

So Niall spun the tale, and Harry started to remember. The specificities still eluded him -- they’d been on their way to a fancy play of Aiden’s, which had turned out to be super boring, and Harry ended up regretting buying a polka dot bowtie for the occasion -- but he felt the phantom icy wind on his nose when they bailed, could practically taste the greasy cheeseburgers that they’d not-really-tried-at-all to avoid getting on their nice suits. He knew that Zayn, for one, wouldn’t count that as a ‘proper date’, but Harry thought that was bullshit. They’d dressed up, hadn’t they? They’d left their homes with excited butterflies in their stomachs and shoes that were too shiny, right? Just because the event had fallen through, it didn’t negate the intent behind it.

And that -- wasn’t that them in a nutshell?

Harry really, really, _seriously_ needed to stop worrying about this. It wasn’t like Niall cared that his memory sucked, or that he was the world-class champion at not admitting his feelings. All the worry was in Harry’s head completely and he knew that, all right, and he knew it wasn’t doing any good to keep on being anxious.

Except that ‘stop being anxious about things out of your control’ was much easier said than done, Harry realised. He kept himself busy with class and Louis, but he felt like he was going through actual withdrawals when he stayed away from Niall too long. So he was sitting on Niall’s sofa one day, pretending like it was his conscious choice to walk here and all but ignoring his boyfriend, when he was forced to stop acting like he wasn’t thinking these things.

“You have to come with me to the park ‘round the corner,” Niall said, apropos of nothing. Harry looked away from the telly, distracted.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I want you to.”

The closest window gave Harry insight into the height of the snowfall, and he thought there wasn’t a chance in hell of getting him out the door. Niall was starting to tug on the hood of his sweater, so Harry started doing something Niall hated: he whined.

“But it’s _cold_ ,” he said, drawing out the ‘o’ sound obnoxiously.

Niall gave him a stern look that Harry didn’t think meshed with his usual expressions in the slightest. He could have argued some more and dug his feet in and refused to get off the sofa, but then Niall said, real quiet-like, “It’s important to me, Haz. Will you please come with me?”

That wasn’t fair. Then again, if Niall played fair, he wouldn’t be the guy who’d managed to get Harry on seven dates before Harry realised they were _dating_.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from complaining the whole time he was getting his outerwear on, but as he’d already agreed Niall only rolled his eyes. When Harry tried putting three scarves on to exaggerate how little he wanted to leave the cozy living room, his boyfriend just laughed at him and snagged one for himself. They got halfway down the front steps when the bitter chill hit. Niall had to physically restrain him from running back inside, and without warning jumped on Harry’s back.

It was a good thing that Harry was used to this sort of attack piggy-back, from not only Niall but Louis and drunk Liam as well, because otherwise they would’ve tumbled right down the rest of the stairs. He hooked his hands under Niall’s knees to make sure he didn’t slide off, and then started to walk to the park Niall was so intent upon visiting.

There really wasn’t that much snow, but Harry wasn’t wrong in complaining about the temperature. The wind hit him from the front and he spared an annoyed thought to Niall, protected by Harry’s body.

“Why are we going to the park?” Harry asked, breaking the quiet. Niall didn’t live on a very busy street and nobody was out at tea-time, besides, so they had the sidewalk to themselves. If Niall mentioned it, though, Harry would insist that their solitude was because nobody else was mad enough to leave the house in such weather.

“Why do you ask so many questions?” Niall shot back. His voice was warm on Harry’s ear, but that was, unfortunately, the only part of him that wasn’t freezing off.

“It’s way too cold for it to be almost March,” complained Harry. Niall ignored him and played with the curls escaping Harry’s beanie just under his ears.

The run-down little park wasn’t far, and when they arrived on the path Harry dropped Niall into the snow without preamble.

Niall squawked in protest, and Harry snickered. He said, “That’s what you get, dumbass.”

It really shouldn’t have surprised him when Niall wrapped his arms around Harry’s calves and pulled him down with all his force. Really, if Harry had been cold before, that was nothing. He didn’t stand up, though, because Niall was laughing, hard, and there was snow in his hair. Harry ran his fingers through it, noticing how the brunette usually contained to his roots was creeping higher up the strands.

“You’re not totally blond anymore,” he said.

Niall grinned, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and hugging securely. “No. I think I’m going to let it grow out this time.”

In response, Harry hummed non-committally. While he was quite certain that nothing Niall did would look _bad_ , per se, he’d just never seen him without some degree of bleach in his hair. Not a huge change, no, but Niall was so casual about it that it threw Harry off a bit.

He didn’t know what to say, or if he was even supposed to say anything at all, so he tucked his head into the warmth of Niall’s scarf-covered neck and snuggled closer.

It was still irritatingly cold out, and Niall was all elbows beneath him, but Niall’s breath was lifting a single curl off Harry’s head rhythmically and Harry could have fallen asleep right there. Nothing about it was comfortable, yet.

Niall inhaled sharper, then, breaking into Harry’s quiet contemplation of how even the most awkward situations felt like the best thing in the world when he was with Niall. Harry knew that inhale -- Niall had something to say, something that might be important or might just be about how much he wanted nachos. Harry made an inquiring noise and Niall chuckled.

“You wouldn’t know this, yourself,” he said in a soft voice, “but this is where I fell in love with you.”

Instinctively, Harry clung tighter to Niall. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that Niall loved him, but it was somehow always a shock when he said it like that. Harry should tell him that he was in love, too, and he didn’t know when it happened or why it happened, but it didn’t matter. He was deeply, ridiculously, terrifyingly in love, to the point where he had to change the radio station at every love song and didn’t mind when Niall used up the hot water and he wanted to say it again and again and again until it sunk in that this was something _real_ \--

Except that Harry didn’t even know where to begin, so he didn’t.

“Did you?” he asked, throat dry.

“Yeah,” said Niall. It was baffling how he managed to sound so normal after saying something like that. Harry still panicked saying something as simple as ‘I love you’ -- which, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t actually say as often as he should -- and he imagined that he’d be a nervous wreck confessing something like that.

Harry waited a moment, but Niall didn’t show any signs of continuing. “Are you -- I mean, is there a story attached to that declaration?”

“No,” Niall said, rolling them over so Harry’s back was drenched in snow very suddenly. He smirked at Harry’s murderous expression, kissing the crease between his eyebrows.

“How is there not a story?” Harry asked, injecting a bitchy note into his tone to let Niall know how very much he disapproved of being put in cold stuff without warning. Or, indeed, at all. Niall must’ve heard it, but the corners of his mouth didn’t falter in the slightest.

“Well, no,” said Niall. “There is a story, but it’s mine. I’m not sharing it.”

“Aw, I thought we were supposed to share everything,” Harry complained. “What’s mine is yours and yours is mine, and all that jazz.”

Now Niall’s grin did fall, but only by a fraction. If Harry hadn’t been watching for it, he wouldn’t have even noticed. As it was, Niall looked sadder than he did before, and more contemplative, and all sorts of emotions that Harry didn’t want to see when they were rolling around in the snow.

“We’re not married, Hazza,” Niall said.

“No,” Harry agreed, “we’re not.”

That was the end of that. Niall stood up and helped Harry as well, dusting the snow off his back and out of his hair with minimal laughter.

Feeling just the tiniest bit overwhelmed, Harry leaned into Niall’s space, watching the way his visible breath disappeared at Niall’s nose, as if Niall was literally taking Harry’s breath away from him. That was a dumb thought, though, so he cast it aside and got in closer, pressing his lips against Niall’s cold ones until neither of them felt chilly anymore.

“I’m glad you brought me here,” Harry said, resting his forehead against Niall’s.

Niall took both of Harry’s hands and brought them up to lay kisses on each of his knuckles. He didn’t say anything else, as they started the walk home, but the callouses of his hand felt nice within Harry’s own, their joined arms swinging between them like a pendulum.

He went back to the flat early that night, more bothered than he ought to be about the extent of his feelings for Niall. Louis was at Liam’s, so he had the place to himself.

Which sucked. Harry wasn’t good at being alone. It was pure luck that, as he was thinking about maybe going over to Aiden’s, his mobile lit up with the name _Perrie To-Be-Malik_. Harry nearly cried with relief as he pressed the ‘answer’ button.

“Perrie,” said Harry into his mobile. “Have you got the wrong number? It’s Zayn you’re trying to call.”

“Oh, shush,” her voice came crackling back. Harry couldn’t help but smile -- he really did miss the girl, he hadn’t seen her in well over a month now. “I’ve been talking to him every day since I left. I needed to hear someone else’s voice, honestly. The girls are driving me up the wall.”

“Yeah, I guess living in each other’s laps like that wouldn’t be, y’know. A good time.” Pacing around his kitchen for something to do, Harry wondered what that would be like, to see the same three people every minute of every day, and quickly decided it would be a nightmare. He loved all his friends -- and, all right, he loved the lads more than anyone else, but they weren’t allowed to know that -- but he couldn’t imagine enjoying a complete lack of privacy and variety in company.

Perrie laughed and said, “It can be a good time, sometimes. I just miss you guys.”

It was silly, but Harry missed her, too. He and Niall would sometimes go onto Youtube and watch her interviews. They had a game for it: Count How Many Times Perrie References Zayn Subtly. She was into the triple digits.

“Am I the first one you called?” Harry asked. “I won’t be upset if I’m not, except that if you called Louis or Liam before me, we can’t be friends anymore.”

“You’re the first,” said Perrie. “How’s Niall?”

Harry had hoped that the subject of Niall would come up later (if at all) but he’d forgotten how interested Perrie was in their relationship. It wasn’t that things were going _badly_ , it was just that it was... too good, is what it was. Harry didn’t deserve what he had by any means. He did want to talk about it, but to who? Liam was out of the question, because his eyes would go all soft and he would look at Harry like Harry was a lovesick puppy, and Louis... well, Louis would lord it over Harry for eternity. A few months ago, Harry would have chosen Zayn to talk to about any sort of relationship problem, but Zayn was currently in a pretty fragile state. So, he supposed Perrie made a good alternative... it was just that he didn’t know her well enough to predict her reaction.

He didn’t like that -- going into a situation he couldn’t predict. It wasn’t what he was conditioned to do. He felt as if he needed to tell somebody, though, he just had to say --

“I’m fucking in love with him,” he blurted, resting his head against one of his cupboards. “I’m -- I’m so in love with him, to the point where it’s scary -- I mean, like, it’s actually terrifying me how intense it all is. And I don’t know what to do, Perrie. I don’t want to be that person that plans out their whole future to include their boyfriend only to regret it later. Or whatever.”

For what felt like longer than it probably was, Perrie didn’t say anything. Harry couldn’t stand still with silence on the other end of the phone line, so he went into Louis’ bedroom to snoop around. There was nothing out of the ordinary there, bed unmade and dirty socks all over the floor.

“You know,” Perrie finally said in a soft, fond sort of voice, “that’s really sweet, Harry.”

Sweet? How on earth was being afraid of his own relationship _sweet _? He thought Germany must be messing with Perrie’s head.__

“Sweet?” he asked aloud. He wasn’t proud of the way his voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and tried to manfully ignore it. Perrie was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t heard. 

__“Very sweet. I just think you’re saying it to the wrong person.”_ _

Harry tried to imagine himself telling Niall what he’d just said for the first time out loud, and couldn’t. He could tell Niall anything, he knew that, but he also knew that any misgivings he voiced would either be brushed off -- _you’re being silly, you know I love you_ \-- or would give Niall the wrong impression entirely -- _are you finishing with me?_ \-- and he just... 

He couldn’t do it. There was no way he could say those things again to _anybody_ , let alone the one person in the world he wanted with all his heart not to hurt. 

__“I’ll tell him,” he lied. “I promise I’ll tell him.”_ _

It wasn’t like she would ever find out, he thought to himself, as if that made the lie okay; Perrie was nosy, yes, but she had enough tact not to go around asking Niall if Harry had explained how in love he was yet. He didn’t say anything later that night when Niall rinsed his hair for him, and he didn’t say anything in the morning when Niall cuddled with him on the sofa to watch bad comedies, and he certainly didn’t say anything after any sort of sex they had, ever, because it would _mean_ something then -- something that Harry didn’t know if he was ready for it to mean. 

__Whole weeks passed, during which Harry bothered Niall for more memories to write down in his memory notebook. He’d broken the thing out again for the time being in hopes that it would make him braver. Also over the course of those weeks, Perrie came home, Zayn was deliriously happy, Louis rolled his eyes a lot, Liam’s smile got soft and crinkly-eyed, Niall stayed exactly the same, and Harry still didn’t say anything._ _

__Of course, he couldn’t put it off forever. He decided that he’d tell Niall how head-over-heels he was once Niall’s hair had gone completely brown. It was well on its way there one morning, when Niall got up earlier than usual to come into the kitchen and watch Harry make breakfast for them._ _

__“Can I ask you a question today?” Niall asked, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind._ _

__“Not if it starts with the words ‘do you remember’ or involves this bacon,” said Harry, taking a cooked piece out of the pan and eating it. He bit back giggles as Niall purposefully and with great malice ran his fingers along Harry’s ticklish sides._ _

__“Great, and here I am about to ask if you remembered promising it was all mine,” Niall joked. He kissed the back of Harry’s neck. “Really, though, I’ve been wondering something lately, and it just... won’t leave me alone. D’you promise to answer it honestly?”_ _

__His tone was light, but Harry could hear the shake in his words. Why was he upset? Harry frowned, turning over the bacon with one hand and gripping one of Niall’s with the other. He said, “Of course.”_ _

__“How long are you, um,” Niall said, his voice small where it was pressed against Harry’s spine, “how long do you think, like, that you’ll want to... be with me?”_ _

__“Why?” Harry asked. His heart was pounding at an uncomfortable rate. “Trying to get rid of me?”_ _

__Niall snorted. “Hardly.”_ _

__“Then why are you asking?”_ _

__“Will you please just -- answer the bloody question, Haz. Read the lines in my palms and tell me our future, will you?”_ _

It was still a weird question, but Niall was starting to sound seriously distressed, so Harry thought hard about it. ‘Where do you see this relationship going?’ was always such a cliché, but generally easy enough to answer. If any one of Harry’s past lovers had asked, he would’ve said, like, ‘until one of us gets bored’. Except -- he didn’t _want_ Niall to get bored. He didn’t want to pack up his drawer of clothes in Niall’s dresser and delete the mixture of dirty/sweet texts he had saved and have nobody to call when his bed felt too big and empty. 

The very thought of leaving what he had with Niall behind made his heart seize up, and -- well, that was his answer right there, wasn’t it? He would do everything in his power to make Niall get _un_ -bored, even if it meant turning into the creepy stalker ex that everyone feared. 

__He turned off the stove and moved the frying pan off the element so the bacon didn’t char beyond recognition -- he still wanted to eat it, after all. He spun in Niall’s arms to bring his own up around Niall’s neck and pull him in for a lingering kiss._ _

__“That isn’t an answer,” Niall said, trying to sound stern through his face-splitting grin._ _

__“I want you,” Harry said, kissing him deeply before continuing, “for as long as you’ll have me. I’m yours, yeah?”_ _

__“Oh, good,” said Niall._ _

“Why did you ask that?” Harry peered questioningly at Niall. The effect of it was probably marred by the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop smiling. It was hard, because Niall just looked so _happy_ about his answer that it was impossible not to beam that happiness right back at him. 

__Niall ducked his face into Harry’s shoulder to hide his blush. “I asked because, like, going down memory lane made me want to... keep going, I guess.”_ _

__“Aww,” Harry cooed. “How long for, sugarplum?”_ _

__“You’ll laugh if I say forever,” said Niall, which was probably a fair assessment, “so can I say, like, I wanna extend memory lane into a memory highway, like, a fucking trans-atlantic highway, with road signs and bridges and high-speed car chases? Is that all right?”_ _

__“Where does it end?” Harry asked into Niall’s hair._ _

__“If we play our cards right,” Niall said, raising his head from the crook of Harry’s neck, “it doesn’t.”_ _

That was -- it was just an analogy about roads, yeah, but it seemed so much bigger than anything else Niall had said to him. Harry himself felt too big -- like he couldn’t fit into his skin properly, like his heart had expanded into every orifice in his body and made his chest all tight and his head dizzy. _I love you_ , he thought. He repeated it in his head like a mantra, the hymn of his own personal religion. _I love you I love you I love you_. 

“I love you,” he said aloud, grinning stupidly. He felt like he’d never meant it more, and that was a bit... it was intimidating, yeah, to feel something so _big_ , and he still wasn’t ready to spill his heart out. He pressed a quick kiss to Niall’s cheek before turning back to the stove. “So, what do you say? Want some bacon or what?” 

**Author's Note:**

> i think at this point i owe marcel and allie my very soul. marcel, thank you for once again being the best cheerleader a girl could ask for; and thank you to allie, who ruthlessly and wonderfully beta'd this thing into submission.
> 
> and thank you to whoever read this far, even if you don't comment/kudos/or even ENJOY the story. you still got to the end. i'm proud of you.
> 
> (keep an eye out for a zerrie continuation in a couple of months~)


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